


Castling Kingside

by TonioCanetti



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bad Parenting, Bonding, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Denial of Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Growing Up Together, Healing, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Acceptance, Self-Denial, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 09:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16573811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TonioCanetti/pseuds/TonioCanetti
Summary: Follow Iwaizumi and Oikawa as they meet each other, grow up together, and become closer than any of them had ever thought possible. As Oikawa suddenly starts to distance himself from his lifelong friend, Iwaizumi realizes they need each other more than ever. Only, he fears he might have realized it too late.





	Castling Kingside

**Author's Note:**

> I am not much of a typical fanfiction writer, in the terms of pairing characters with each other and strutting out quirky situations your favorite show’s cast might share. However, I am a big fan of Haikyuu and have taken a great liking to the characters of Oikawa and Iwaizumi and the depiction of their relation. I was not surprised to find that the fandom has done so as well, but I did welcome the many mature and creative works about the two I encountered online. So, one summer weekend, such a story started to form in my head as well. 
> 
> This will be a long read, following the two of them throughout their entire childhood and youth. I hope I am able to do these characters and the friendship they share justice, and portray them in a way which feels both in character as well as somewhat propriate.  
> Enjoy and tell me what you think!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: this story has not been beta-read. I have revised it countless times, but I am just one simple human, and as we all know, those are prone to making mistakes. I apologize for any there might be. 
> 
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
> 
> I do not own the rights to any of the characters in this story.  
> No money will be made off this work nor will it receive any monetary funding.  
> Any copyright infringements possibly present in this work are unintentional and bear no ill intentions towards the original owner. 
> 
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
> 
> Ad: Tags & Triggers  
> After careful consideration, I concluded that I will not make use of elaborate trigger warnings or any of the sort for this story. I do not believe in protecting consumers for their own sake, as being confronted with difficult topics is what lets us reflect, explore our emotions, and eventually grow as a person.  
> That being sad, this is an emotional piece of fiction which explores some dark themes here and there. If you do not encounter yourself in the best of places mental health wise, you might better lay this story aside for the moment. Remember that mental health problems are a serious issue and don’t hesitate to get help if you are not feeling well.

The last rays of the setting sun are gleaming in through the window.

The obtrusive ticking of the clock makes the already excruciatingly slow passing of time seem even more laggard.

The air which hangs in the small room feels as thick as the fog on one of those early spring mornings we used to go to pre-class practice together. We had loved that feeling.

No, that’s wrong now that I think of it. HE had loved the feeling. I had always hated the mixture of humidity and coldness which it summoned. In fact, I guess I only think fondly of it because the memories it provokes are ones I am fond of. Because recalling the situation makes me recall how happy and content he had always been when going to practice on those horrible mornings. Even though it was way too early for most teenagers to be out of bed – and oh boy, especially for him – he would never be his usual disgruntled morning mess when the spring fog was out. I remember feeling good simply because he felt good. I like to remember these mornings because I like to remember him.

No. Nothing about remembering him, I scold myself. He’s still here, lying next to me. It is going to be alright.

Somehow.

The lights are sterile, as are the faces of the small crowd of people who have gathered around the bed. They had arrived one after another over the course of the last hour or two. I do not recall exactly for how long we have been here. Probably because I do not care. It could have been 30 minutes or 3 days for all I mind. To me, it would have made no difference. I would still have been exactly where I am now, regardless of how long all this might take. Thus, I do not care.

The plastic chair I am sitting on has been moved as close to his side as possible. Not by the nurses, by me, of course. I have rotated it to face the bed in such a way that it is both impossible for me to miss any movement he might – eventually – perform, as well as for anyone entering through the room’s door to not immediately spot me sitting next to my best friend. It might have been somewhat of an arrogant move, but it helps to set the state. Whoever is to join us now would have to accept that they did not arrive here as fast as possible. That someone else is already occupying the spot they probably thought they deserved.

All eyes are on me. I need not raise my gaze from the spot of the mattress I am staring on to notice that. I know it. I can feel it. Feel the weight of their stares pressing down on me; their many questions boiling up inside them with each moment I continue to let pass. Feel their shock, their confusion, their longing to have all this explained to them. To have someone tell them with easy words what they apparently find so hard to understand.

Because they cannot figure it out themselves. They have proven that they are unable to throughout the last 18 years, and they are not doing any better now.

Seriously? Fuck them.

Fuck their sadness. Fuck their shocked faces and their ridiculous expressions of not understanding, of not wanting to understand. How could they not get it? How could they stand in this room, right next to him, literally see it right in front of their eyes and still not get it? Do they really not care? After all this? Or do they not understand that, in order TO understand, they would need to have figured it – HIM! – out themselves, not have it explained to them by someone else?

The initial shock and desperation I felt upon learning of – well, _this_ \- have long since turned into sadness. And anger. Honest, deep rooted anger. At first, I did not understand the feelings that arose within me very well. I felt as if I should rather offer every little emotion I possibly had to my best friend; I thought that, whatever small part of my feelings these other people took up, should have better been spent on him.  I wanted to devote all my sadness, all my grief, all the confusing, boiling sensations of incredible affection rooted within me to the most precious person in my life. Because he is the one deserving of my emotions, not these assholes I barely know.

But I cannot help it. Reflecting about my feelings, right now, I am angry first and sad second.

Well so be it. Time to let off some steam.

As I slowly raise my head I realize I have been right in my assumptions. Everyone’s attention is directed towards me, as they are eagerly awaiting my next move. Have I said, ‘Fuck them?’ You would think they were more occupied with the severely hurt teenager next to me who they claim to care so much about. But no, clearly, I am the one in the room in need of their attention. I am their savior, who is going to step in any moment now to finally clarify what should definitely not need any clarification.

Wow. Once again, fuck them. Fuck, fuck, fuck them. None of them deserve to have it explained to them. If they cannot recognize it themselves, not even now, then I honestly do not want to elaborate on the situation. How could they expect me to just “tell them”? Where should I even start?

I turn my head to once again examine the immobile body of my best friend. Even lying down in a hospital bed, with tubes attached to his arms, and wounds all over his body, I am unable to divert my eyes from him. As painful as the image is, I feel no need to shy away. Even now, in the obvious worst state he has ever been in, to me, my best friend still looks as endearing as ever; vulnerable. And kind of cute.  

Usually, I would concern myself a lot about coming up with thoughts like this. Sure, everybody who has ever met him would agree that he _is_ good-looking and charming. However, should that not be something I, as his best friend, would simply have to be aware of, or able to logically comprehend? – not, like, actively feel myself?

At least this is what I imagine it to be like for the other teenagers out there.

Is it not?

Most teenage boys usually, like, _not_ like to openly talk about their innermost feelings with their male friends, right? Especially not as openly as we do. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I swear I sometimes know the guy better than he does himself. And not because I am so good at reading people; no, it is because there is not one inch to his personality I do not know. I know how he’s feeling, know what he’s thinking, know what he really means whenever he says something other people would not even pick up on. I can read him so easily, that, even if we had not long ago agreed upon to always be honest with each other, there is literally no point in trying to hide anything from me anymore. Not that he did not still try to sometimes. But it was always in vain.

Nonetheless, and although I needed some time to accustom myself to it at the beginning, the same goes the other way; I still think it is a bit creepy how, more often than once, my friend would start telling me stuff about myself I would have never even dreamt about realizing on my own. Without any hesitation. And not only would we explain our thoughts to each other, we would do so using phrases most teenage boys would get called all sorts of things for. But that is how it is, how it always has been. It feels right to me that we are this way.

Still, although I do not know who gets to decide what classifies as a common friendship between adolescent boys, I am pretty sure we defy it.

Weird, huh? You think I would just enjoy the great bond we share, but no, I have to question its normalness and compare us to the rest of the not-so-emotional guy friendships out there.

Ridiculous.

After all, our friendship has never been normal. We are so stupidly close and intimate, it is absurd. We are like some type of symbiotic life form. And the thing is, this is the way it has been for over half my life – with ups and downs, sure – but I have become so accustomed to this constant intimacy that I had just stopped thinking about it all together and took what we had for granted, I guess.

Until recently, of course. Suddenly thoughts about the nature of our bond had started to re-arise within me. More uncertain than ever, this time; to the point that trying to make sense of my feelings towards this boy has been a major part of my life for the last few months now.

But today I convince my brain to shut down the part of me which is unsure about what to make of our relationship, and ban it from befogging my consciousness. There would be more than enough time to worry about that in the future. Right now, I have more urgent things to do. I might not like it, but I must admit that these people at least merit an objective retelling of events.

Not because _I_ think they do, oh no. In my opinion, they have gambled away their chances to partake actively in the life of my best friend a long time ago. No, there is only one reason why I will adhere to their oh so painful desires of _please_ knowing how their precious boy became like this.

Yeah, how could it possibly have happened? Geez, I have no idea! Maybe, oh I do not know, look into the mirror or something.

No, the only reason I will tell this story is because I know that, deep down, he would have wanted me to do so.

I cannot specify why or how I am sure of this, I just am. As I have said, when you know each other as intimately as we do, you become very good at estimating what the other person would do, say, or feel in any situation. In fact, I would say we are not only good at this. We are _fantastic_. If you asked me about my thoughts on something, I would tell you what they are at that specific moment. But if you asked _him_ about my thoughts, he would be able to tell you what I actually believe, and what I simply was not able to realize back then.

For example, I am 100% positive my friend would not want to share his story eagerly with all these people right now, were he the one to tell it. However, since I just explained I know him better than he does himself, I will reveal it to them anyway. Because, in the long run, I am certain he would regret not letting them know all those things that went on inside him.

I can picture it pretty vividly. He will probably be angry with me upon learning that I have shared what he would have kept private. But that is okay. After all, a few months down the line, he will thank me for doing it; for acting the way I did and taking the right decision, the one he would not have taken. The more mature one.

Then he will look at me with those big, endearing eyes, the ones that are reserved for the few times his smile is actually genuine. I will smile right back at him. Then we will probably laugh together, and I might just throw him a well-meaning punch to the shoulder.

Normal teenage friendship, as I told you.

Sigh.

I guess now is as good a time as ever to commence my story?

I look into the liminal space where my friend’s eyes would meet mine; were they not closed and unmoving. This is not going to get easier as time moves on. But, I still have one more idea of what to do. Instead of finally facing this disgusting crowd, I allow myself one last distraction.

While slowly rising from my seat – with the eyes of the entire entourage rising with me - I draw closer to my friend’s motionless figure. I scan his body, really take it in this time, from his forehead all the way down to where the bedsheet overlaps with his chest, and then follow his one exposed arm down even further. The arm’s exposure is due to the two plastic tubes emerging out of an access point in his veins and connecting his bodily fluids to a plastic bag filled with, _whatever_ , I have no idea, which is hanging from a moveable stand nearby and has already been changed once during the time I have been here. He looks so vulnerable. He often does, but this time it is different. I feel the urge to protect him, to give up all the positive energy I can find within me to somehow make him feel and _be_ better. And the fact that I cannot, not now, when he is looking his absolute worst, I do not know how to handle. I feel that, if I can just be close to him, it might help somehow. As if this connection we share, involuntarily made me _want_ to be near him. Because fuck, that is the only thing I can do to help.  

Overwhelmed by everything I feel, I extend my hand out to touch his arm. It feels cold. And unpleasant. Nothing like him at all. Still, I do not shy back from the touch. I slowly caress his forearm with my fingers, careful not to interfere with its plastic tube enhancements. All the while, I keep looking at his face, as if he were to wake up every moment. Silly.

After only a few seconds of my display of physical care, I can already see the fruits of my work. As I turn around to face the gathered crowd, their expressions have already changed to surprise, or even slight shock. Understandable; and desired. It hurts a bit to admit it, but my act of physical affection was not only meant to satisfy my needs, but also to establish dominance.

Shit, that sounds terrible.

But I just wanted them to see this; to make absolutely clear how close we are, and that I am not afraid of letting other people know about this. In fact, I realize I really enjoy this display of our bond. It feels a bit like showing off, even. Sure, physical closeness was very common between us, but it is certainly nothing anyone in this crowd has ever seen my friend partake in.

I might be a worse person than I thought I was, but who cares. Now, there should be no doubt left about who in this room has the strongest connection to him.

I get up from the mattress and take a step towards my observers. I study them. They are still waiting, unsure of what is to come.

I take a theatrical breath. Then I liberate them.

“You do not deserve what I’m about to tell you.”

They are looking at me even more confused than before, assuming that is even possible. However, before anyone can even react to the sudden end of my silence, I reiterate my stance.

“You heard me just right. None of you should have any right to learn this.”

Appalled faces everywhere. Wow. Whatever they had expected to come out of my mouth, it was certainly not this.

A middle-aged woman, no idea who the fuck she is, some aunt probably, or some other relative from his mother’s side, is the first to find her voice again.

“Excuse me young man, but what is that supposed to mean?”

She manages to not let her anger transcend through her words, but it certainly does through her tone and gestures.

“How could you be so arrogant to denounce our relation? This is outrageous! We are his family after all!”

I cannot help but smirk. It might further my reputation as an arrogant brat, but so be it. Maybe I am, I consider, as I answer calmly but precise.

“Yeay, and what a family you are. So much in tune with your relative’s life that you had to clarify whether or not he was still playing as the main setter of his high school team.”

That shuts her up, at least for a moment. One point for me.

“That has nothing to do with it! I cannot believe you! Why would you even think about denying us information about his health?”. Well, take an educated guess, I think to myself, but I let her finish. “And so what if we do not know about every little inch of his private life? The important thing is that we are here now, isn’t it? I’m sure not all of your relatives know exactly what you are doing on your school’s sports team either!”

I inhale concentratedly while she speaks. I have to calm myself down in order not to scream obscenities at the woman. It is truly impressive how resistant you could be to acknowledge what someone you claim to care about actually needs – or needed. I realize that this is one of those situations in which you normally say stuff you are going to regret tenfold afterwards – not because you are sorry for hurting someone’s feelings, no, but because you suddenly come up with a way better response than the one you had to offer at the moment. Thankfully, this time, my quick-wittedness does not decide to miraculously leave me to myself. So I go in for the finish.

“My relatives? Yeah, sure they do.” I look the lady in the eyes before continuing. “The ones that care about me, that is.”

Nice kill. That did it for her. Annoyingly, the execution of one of the bystanders seems to have revived the others, as suddenly a few more voices ring through to me.

“This is ridiculous. Who do you think you are? Don’t you realize whom you’re talking to? Show some respect, for god’s sake!”

I am not nearly as infuriated by this as my accuser was likely hoping I would be, but I still turn my head to the comment’s source, only to encounter the angry face of someone I know oh to well. My friend’s stepdad.

Ah yes, what pleasant thoughts arise when thinking about him. I would oh so willingly punch the accusatory look right out of his face. He is probably the last person in the room who could get away with blaming me of all people for overestimating the significance one had in my best friend’s life. Ironically, he is being held onto by the only person who could – his mother. Other than most of them, she has still not found her voice and is instead trying to clear her face of the remains of an endless flow of tears which had streamed down her cheeks earlier. She whimpers while holding her new husband close to her, cleansing her face with a tissue.

Holy shit, real emotions. They do exist in this family after all.

Before responding – to whoever – I try to make eye contact with his mother briefly. She does catch up on it – or well, she finds my gaze at least – and stops her crying for a bit. I hope that the expression I send her way conveys some sympathy. I really should have thought this through better. She should have been excluded from my rage. Sure, she has done her fair share of terrible deeds concerning my friend’s family as well. But she does not deserve this. She cares about him, still.

It does not excuse her not being there for him when he would have needed it, but it is something.

In the meantime, a stream of angry comments has been continuously swirling around the room. I ignore most of it. I can wait. I have been waiting a lot today, actually. It is them who desperately want some clarification.

“Hello? I am talking to you! Unbelievable, this kid!”

I am snapped out of my attempt on nonverbal communication with my best friend’s mother by his stepdad’s fingers being shoved in my face.

“You listening now? Alright, I don’t care what you think of us, or how much better you believe to know my stepson than I do. I know your kind. You think adults are all unemotional garbage who cannot understand your complex teenage minds. But you know what? I. don’t. care.”

I remain silent and unfazed. I would be lying if I said this particular thought had not crossed my mind, but I will definitely not grant him any victory, no matter how small. He continues.

“So would you just step off your high horse, do these people you apparently dislike so much one favor and tell us what happened?” He looked at his wife. She let her eyes switch rapidly between her husband and me, sporting an expression that screamed uncertainty. “Look I’m begging you, goddammit. If you don’t want to tell us, then at least do it for her.”

He has a point. While I would have not allowed all the other shit he was sputtering to influence my decision of when and how to give these people what they wanted, this was actually quite convincing. Of course, it would do nothing to change my mind had I not already decided that my best friend, deep down, would approve of my retelling. But out of all the ways these people were trying to bring me to open up, it _would_ have been the most convincing.

Everyone is scanning me with their eyes once again. I gulp. “Alright, I’ll cut it.” I say, and mean it. For real this time.

I choose my words carefully as I begin my speech. Right attitude for the right occasion. Just like my friend would have done.

“I do not want to establish “how much better I know your stepson” by telling you what you’re about to hear right now – “ I throw a neutral glance to my friend’s stepfather which hopefully achieves just what I want – which is to make an impact not at all neutral – “but, no matter how little you might like it, you will have to accept that you need to learn a few things about me as well, if you want to understand ‘your precious relative’s’ situation.”

I ponder. I guess there is room for one more offensive charge.

“Wait, let me rephrase that. If you want to _try_ to understand it. With all due respect – “ I am focusing on my stepdad nemesis again, “ if you have not been able to do so until now, I cannot promise you that you will be capable to even after my account.” The man is looking at me furiously. I manage a smile. It only furthers his enragement.

Tss. This is what you get for making me play your game. Your game of packaging distaste and fury into soft words. The added smile is something I improvised from remembering how my best friend used to deal with these type of situations. He always smiles. Not only when he is truly being sweet and friendly, but _especially_ when he is only acting as if he were. Having played the part myself just now, I cannot deny that it feels somewhat nice. Having to keep up with these people – I guess I just found out why he was so good at it.

_Is_. Is, for fuck’s sake. Nothing of this talking about him as if he were not here anymore.

Despite my thoughts swirling like mad through my mind, a small smile starts to form on my face as I remember how a lot of times I was the only one capable of distinguishing between the real him and the slightly enhanced persona he put on display for the rest of the world.

Yeah, let his fucking stepdad try doing that.

I continue speaking using my new field-tested method of sugarcoating accusatory statements. “I hope none of you have planned on leaving in the near future, as the story you are about to hear might take a bit longer to tell than you have anticipated.” I look around. Everybody is listening. Nice. “I know our group are not yet fully complete, but I guess you would all _die_ of excitement, were I to conceal our friend’s history any longer.” I pause. I put extra focus on calling him “our” friend, what with being all inclusive and what not.

Damn, I really am channeling the behavior of my friend, acting like this. I picture him listening to our exchange just now and being impressed by me adapting his way of dealing with things. It feels reassuring; as if he was backing me up.

“I am going to tell you all this because I know it is what he would want me to do. I have known him since forever – longer than most of you, that is simply a fact – and am going to offer as detailed a description of the events which have led up to this tragedy as I can.”

 “Don’t you want to wait for his father to arrive?” An older woman abruptly interrupts. “If you are finally going to tell us, why not wait the little while longer, so we won’t have to repeat it?”

I don’t know the lady, plus I am currently trying on the nice-guy-mask I have borrowed from my best friend, so I offer the older woman a smile. How naïve.

“I don’t think there’s any need to wait up on him. Most of what he will miss will be stuff which occurred in the early life of his son – I assume he is rather familiar with that.” I try to sound as sweet as possible. The smile must work wonders, as she appears slightly confused, but otherwise convinced. Damn, life can be easy if you play it this way. My friend is a genius for having this worked out so many years ago.

“Also, his father has actually written me a message some twenty minutes ago that he would not take long anymore. He’s simply caught up in some traffic rush.” That was a lie, but I am sure everyone would buy it. He definitely has not written any of them, so there is no way to prove me wrong.

Why have I felt the need to lie? Well, I remembered my friend would sometimes do the same, just for convenience. And to add the little cherry on top of his masterpiece of manipulation. But also, I did not want to go into too much detail on why I felt okay with starting to recount all that happened now, not when he was here. I know that is the way he – my friend’s father I mean – would have wanted it.

Yeah that’s right. I am not excluding him. This lady simply does not realize that there is absolutely no new information this person would gain out of my story. She does not know that he is the only relative of my friend who truly, deeply cares about him – always has and still does.

It is telling that the rest of his family has not picked up on it.

I tighten my imaginary nice-guy-mask. “Alright, all set?” My listeners offer no confirmation, but they also do not interrupt me. I will take that. “Good. So let me begin. I cannot promise that I will be able to explain why he felt the need to… do this. But I will tell you all there is to him –“ I pause shortly. “and to us.”

Yeah. I will tell you about us.

“I will tell you all about Tooru and me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you have enjoyed this first chapter. 
> 
> I know, this has not been an easy start for a long story, so thank you for pulling through. The next chapters will focus more on the actual history these two share. And they will be a lot more lighthearted, don’t worry.
> 
> I am currently doing an exchange semester, and pretty busy with university, sports, and enjoying the life studying in another country entails. I have a few more chapters prepared, but I cannot promise any regular updates. This work is something I want to be as content with as possible, and that means lots and lots of rewriting and editing. 
> 
> If everything goes well, this will go on for a long time!  
> So make like an old piece of gum and stick around!
> 
> Comments, likes, and all that good stuff is greatly appreciated.


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